


the art of planetary motion

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Multi, Post-Movie(s), Pre-OT3, Pre-Slash, Shippy Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there it is. Finn stops dead, yanking Rey back with him. If she was anyone else, he’d have toppled her by mistake. Instead, she twists with him and anticipates the way his hands settle on her shoulders. Because that’s what Jedi do. It’s spooky <i>and</i> cool all at the same time. “It’s his what now?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finn

Rey runs like lightning might strike her heels, her stride both fast and loping, legs stretching to chew through as much distance as they can. The only thing stopping Finn from ducking behind one of the X-wings is the fact she’s left her staff behind. This time. And Rey would spot him anyway. There aren’t many hiding places on the tarmac.

That said, the way she’s waving her arms around doesn’t bode well for him. Or for anybody really. But especially him. “Finn!”

He’d like to pretend there’s another Finn around to take the blame for Rey’s problem. But the fact is, Finn’s the only one here. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it,” he answers, lifting his innocent and blameless hands, his wrench clattering to the ground.

With preternatural finesse, she ends her sprint with a tiny bounce, springing on the balls of her feet. The exuberant smile on her face morphs to suspicion and she narrows her eyes. Despite her exertion, she breathes evenly when she speaks. “Didn’t do what?”

“Nothing,” he insists, placating. He bends down to pick the tool up. “I _told_ you.”

“Okay,” she says, clipping each syllable in her excitement. “I don’t care. We’ve got more important concerns.”

“You’re scaring me.” He stares her down to the best of his ability, searching her features for a clue about this so-called concern. “You know that, right?”

She groans, wrapping her arm around his elbow and gripping damned tight. Tugging him off-balance, she pulls him toward the main compound, the wrench making a second trip to the ground in almost as many seconds. He considers digging his heels into the ground. Then a shove catches him between the shoulder blades, throws that thought right out.

“This isn’t the time for stubbornness,” she says, plain _and_ disingenuous all at once.

“You said you weren’t gonna do that anymore!” he whispers, leaning close, relieved there’s no one around to witness his near-stumble. “Rule number seven. No—”

“Master Luke says I need to practice.” Failing to bite back a smile, she adds, “Poe lets me levitate him _and_ _Black One_.”

“ _Master Luke_ needs to practice acting like a person.” Finn’s hand scrubs over his face as defeat sets in, a familiar sensation when it comes to Rey. Still, he fires one last salvo. Just to make sure Rey knows she’s not always gonna win without some pushback. “And Poe steals TIE fighters for a living. What does he know?”

As far as salvos go? Not the best.

Rey’s brows furrow. “A _single TIE fighter_ hardly constitutes a _living_ , Finn.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. One was a luxury cruiser belonging to a First Order sympathizer. You’re right. It’s nothing close to the same thing.”

Rey’s grin somehow manages to triple in brightness. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

Discomfort twists and curls in Finn’s stomach, twining around his gut and squeezing. _I wish he’d never told me about it,_ Finn thinks, desperate. _I wish he’d never_ done _it._

Never mind the fact that Finn wouldn’t be here if Poe wasn’t inclined to a little risk-taking now and again. Whether Finn means their first meeting or something else altogether, Finn couldn’t—wouldn’t—say. He doesn’t think too hard about what he’d planned to do on Takodana, though.

“Anyone would think you don’t trust me,” she continues, airy. Striding forward on her toes, she dips with each step, purposefully exaggerating her walk. Making a point about Finn’s too-slow-for-her gait probably.

“You knocked the wind out of me with a—” Gritting his teeth, he breathes through his nose. There’s no winning this argument, old and comfortable as it’s grown. “Why don’t you tell me where we’re going, hmm?”

That gets Rey back on track, distracting her from ribbing Finn further. A most miraculous and unexpected turn of events from Finn’s perspective. “Poe,” she says, pointing ahead, telling Finn nothing he didn’t already know. Yeah, Poe’s somewhere in that building. He could’ve guessed that. “It’s his birthday.”

And there it is. Finn stops dead, yanking Rey back with him. If she was anyone else, he’d have toppled her by mistake. Instead, she twists with him _and_ anticipates the way his hands settle on her shoulders. Because that’s what Jedi do. It’s spooky and cool all at the same time. “It’s his what now?”

“His _birthday_ ,” she replies, exasperated. “The year’s a bit longer where he’s from. BB-8 had to tell me.”

“Why didn’t he tell us?” Finn squints at the building. It gives him no insight into where Poe might be, but he feels a tiny bit better all the same. Like he’s done _something_. Until he remembers that Poe’s the first person on the base to find an excuse to organize a get-together. Confusion replaces his ill-timed sense of accomplishment. Finn’s lost count of how many birthday-anniversary-retirement-holiday-we-survived-another-mission-just-because parties Poe’s dragged him to. _Best morale booster there is, Finn,_ he’d said once... before telling Finn he never has to go if he doesn’t want to. _I don’t believe in mandatory fun either_.

Finn’s always gone. He’d do anything Poe asked.

None of that explains the absolute silence on this point. From all corners. Somebody would’ve said something, surely?

“I don’t _know_ ,” she says, jaw tight with determination. Finn almost feels sorry for Poe once he sees that look on her face. It never bodes well, screaming hell-to-pay to whoever causes it. Rey’d missed out on a lot of early parties, but she’d taken to them from pretty much the minute she’d returned to base, Luke Skywalker in tow.

All because of Poe.

He’d clapped her on the shoulder and leaned close, creating a small bubble of privacy in the middle of an otherwise dense throng of people. Finn only knows what he’d said because he’d been standing so close to the pair of them at the time. Neither had thought to shoo him away. _How do you feel about welcome home parties?_

 _I wouldn’t know,_ she’d replied, bewildered. _I’ve never had one._

He’d smiled to cover a frown, eyes flashing hot a split second before cooling to something softer. The only reason Finn knows _that_ is because he’d been spending a lot time up to that point trying to figure Poe out. Not that he still isn’t trying now.

_What d’you say we change that, Rey?_

If Finn had to guess, that’s about the time Rey started caring about things like when a certain Resistance pilot’s birthday might be. Finn can’t blame her. It’d be harder to _not_ care about Poe and things like Poe’s birthday.

“Are you coming or not?” Rey’s boots tap the same way she bangs her staff against every available surface, with impatience and perfect rhythm.

“Yeah, what are you waiting for?” Finn asks, rhetorical, purposefully silly. Defuse her annoyance—or worse, disappointment—as best he can.

She huffs and pushes forward, dragging Finn in her wake. Through the base and out again, the secondary hangar their apparent goal. Stares, smiles and whispers follow them across the length of it. Pilots, engineers, support staff—a gauntlet of potential gossipmongers. Then: their destination.

An office. Poe’s office. The placard next to the door says so and everything. Finn just squints at it, dubious.

“Since when does Poe have an office?” Finn asks in a whisper, keenly aware of the eyes burning with interest behind his back. A prickling sense of embarrassment creeps up his neck. If he doesn’t hear the sound of ships being repaired soon, he’ll show them something interesting. And then he’ll really be embarrassed about it.

“Finn, just knock.”

“No, seriously. Since when?”

“Since forever. He’s a commander. Why wouldn’t he have an office? Now will you knock?”

Finn crosses his arms. “No, I’m not gonna knock. He’s _Poe Dameron_. Why _would_ he have an office?”

“Trust me, you’re not the first person to ask that question,” Poe says. His knuckles rap against the inside of an open window not ten feet away. Sliding the glass further ajar, he pokes his head out, leans his forearms against the sill. “How about I save you the trouble, huh?” he adds, smiling thinly as the door hisses open on its last, pneumatic legs. “Now no one has to knock.”

Chastened despite the lack of reprimand, Finn waits in the open doorway as Rey bounds past him. “Poe.”

Finn follows at a more measured pace, a dignified pace. No reason to seem eager.

“Hey, guys,” he answers, waving them toward a pair of chairs. _Chairs_. Finn can’t believe there are chairs. And a desk. And a _lamp_. The metallic doodads strewn across every spare surface? Those, Finn can buy. Each one of them, greasy with old oil or shiny and unused or poised in some state between, seems like the sort of thing Poe would keep around.

When Finn finally turns his gaze to Poe himself, though, he finds nothing familiar in the figure. His drab olive uniform sits poorly on his shoulders and give him a sickly cast. Red marks ring his neck, explained when Poe goes and tugs at the collar. The fabric remains uncooperative and stiff despite the hand-to-cloth struggle.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asks, still half standing, as they take the seats he’d gestured at. His heart’s not in it though, like the fight’s been beaten out of him. That’s weird enough. But it’s the forced smile that pains Finn more than anything else, sharp and desperate in all the ways Poe’s not.

Even his eyes seem bruised, too tired for the man Finn knows.

His fingers drag through his hair as he waits for a response, mussing the already wild curls. _Come on, Rey. This was your idea,_ Finn thinks, hoping she’ll somehow pick up on the message. He finally resorts to kicking at her ankle to instigate a reaction from her.

“Poe,” she says, hesitant this time, like perhaps she’s rethinking this idea, too. Curling her fingers into the armrests, she leans forward, regrouping with a deep breath. “BB-8 said it was your birthday today.”

“Did they,” Poe answers, eyebrow creeping up his forehead. Then, ponderous, he looks away. “I suppose Beebs would know.” Peering back at them, he seems better, a bit of the weight coming off his shoulders. Still, he shakes his head, mouth forming an ‘o’ as his chin dips, prompting. “So…”

“You didn’t?” Rey asks.

“Not really.” Taking his seat, he scrubs at his hair. “Was that what you wanted to talk about? My birthday?”

“Yes!”

Poe’s eyes flick between Rey and Finn and back again. This has got bad idea written all over it, Finn’s got a knack for noticing things like that. Clearly something’s going on that he and she aren’t getting. A bad meeting from the looks of it. About things they can’t know. Classified and all that. It happens sometimes. Not so often as it used to, though. “I think what she means is—”

“I know what I mean,” Rey snaps.

“—happy birthday,” he finishes, not quite glaring at her.

“Right. Yes.” Rey swallows and nods, reluctant. “Happy birthday.”

A spark of something causes Poe’s lip to quirk upward. Amusement, maybe, though not enough to clear the air of sadness? Frustration? Whatever it is that’s got all caught up in Poe’s mind like this. “Thanks, guys. That means a lot to me.”

And then, nothing.

Finn’s never in his life had an awkward moment with Poe and after this one, he hopes never to have another. It’s not right. It’s not _natural_. But Rey doesn’t fix it and Finn can’t think of anything to say and Poe’s staring off into space like it’s his job.

Which, in a way, it is.

_You’re losing it, Finn. Just—give up now. It’s over. Lesson learned. Never let Rey talk you into anything. Ever. It’s the only way._

Finn pushes himself to his feet. “Listen, we should probably—”

This time, it’s Rey who has the nerve to shoot _him_ a look. And hers is most definitely a glare. After a silent exchange that speak to how much time Finn and Rey spend together, she concedes defeat, too. Whatever Rey thought she’d accomplish, it’s obviously not the right time to broach it.

“How about dinner?” Poe asks, snapping back to the conversation for no discernable reason. “Later.” He flicks his hand through the air in a lazy figure eight that encompasses the three of them. “Just us. I’ll cook. It’ll be fun. You can even sing if you want.”

Rey gapes at him and, Finn’s got to admit, he’s a little surprised, too, all things considered. They hadn’t started this conversation under the best of circumstances. The fact that Poe’s flipping the script on them now…

Actually, put that way, Finn’s not surprised at all.

But now Finn’s hoping he doesn’t actually expect singing. Finn still hasn’t learned all the words yet. And his voice isn’t the most pleasant to listen to.

“You’re not having a party?” Rey asks, inching toward the desk and letting her hands rest on it as she bends forward. Finn can only see the back of her head, but he imagines she’s got that studious, determined look in her eye again.

He laughs, more genuine this time. “Force, no.” At Finn’s—and presumably Rey’s—look of surprise, he clarifies, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “It’s not really my thing, birthdays. My birthday anyway. Other people’s birthdays—they’re great. Love ‘em.”

So much for clarification.

“But—” Rey pushes off the desk, turning away, mouth thinned in frustration.

Prodding, voice lifting and falling in a drawn-out sing-song, Poe asks, “Yes, but…?”

“Fine,” She throws her hands up, both petulant and conciliatory. “Dinner. Tonight.”

Poe breaks into the first true grin Finn’s seen since this conversation started. A record amount of time, maybe. Just seeing it unlocks the tension sitting in Finn’s chest and sets it free. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until it’s there again. Where it belongs.

“Good,” Poe says, pleased. Then, embarrassed, mouth firming in distaste, “Listen, it’s been kind of a long day. And I still have some work to do…”

“Say no more,” Finn cuts in, grabbing for Rey’s wrist before she can ask about it.

“But—I’m glad you stopped by,” Poe insists, standing. He squeezes past a cart full of ships’ parts, hip catching on the corner, rattling the pieces. Clasping each of them on the arm, warm and fond, he guides them toward the door. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

Finn hears the scoff Rey chokes back. Poe hears it, too, and cuffs her on the shoulder in response. “I mean it,” Poe says. “You both have better things to do than tromp out to the ass-end of the base for me.”

“Well, I _was_ kind of in the middle of—”

Unlike Poe, who pulls his punches because he’s a gentleman, Rey lets her fist fly at Finn’s bicep with painful accuracy. It throbs and maybe he deserves it, but maybe not, because the last of Poe’s foul mood dissipates, if only for a moment, as a result. ”Ow,” he says, pointed. “ _Joking_ , Rey.”

“Finn was fiddling around on the tarmac,” Rey says, imperious, ignoring Finn. “He wasn’t in the middle of anything.”

“I figured,” Poe answers, voice crackling wryly, his attention entirely on Finn in a way that would make Finn blush if he was the type.

Which, definitely not. No way.

“Rey, why don’t we get out of the man’s hair, hmm? Maybe let him do his job?”

“Shh, alright. Fine.” Taking hold of Finn’s arm, she pulls him toward the door like it had been her idea to go the whole time. “See you later, Poe.”

She strides away with purpose, Finn an accessory to her departure at best. It leaves Finn time to see the interest with which all those people outside Poe’s office regard them. They are, if it’s even possible, even more keen now than before Finn and Rey had gone inside. Poe cajoles them back to work with a complicated wave of his hand and a verbal appeal to their more industirous natures. They funnel their curiosity into banging tools around and scuffing their feet half-heartedly.

 _That’s right,_ Finn thinks. _Nothing to see here. We totally didn’t just make fools out of ourselves in front of your boss. Nope. Not us. Rey maybe. Not me._

“Come on, Finn,” Rey says, unaware of, or unconcerned with, the intrigue dogging them. He envies her that. ”We’ve got work to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A birthday present!” Eyes bright with a new-found excitement, she smiles at him, all but vibrating with emotion. “If he doesn’t want a party, fine. But we have to do _something_ for him.”

Dread settles low in Finn’s chest, insistent, pushing against his ribcage. Whatever Rey’s planning—and she’s always planning something—it can’t possibly be good. It never, ever is. But it doesn’t matter if it’ll make her happy and it’s for Poe. ”Sure. Yeah. A birthday present. We can do that.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, right? How hard can it be?”

Finn bites his tongue, unwilling to curse them with further speculation on the matter. Rey should know better by now than to say that.

“I’ve gotta bad feeling about this,” he mutters, earning himself another bruise. He might—maybe—deserve this one. But she’s not wrong. Poe deserves whatever effort Rey wants to put into this, more if Finn’s being entirely honest.

“It’ll be great,” Rey insists, hitting him on the chest with the back of her hand. “I promise. You’ll see. He’ll love it.”

He has no idea what ‘it’ is going to be, his mind already scrabbling for ideas, but he can’t deny her infectious enthusiasm. It seeps in, building confidence in her plan. Hell, yeah, Poe’s gonna love it. It’ll be the best damned birthday present he’s ever gotten, the best damned birthday he’s ever had. Party or no.


	2. Poe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In addition to having access to your file and a better than average memory, I fought beside your mother on Naboo. I’d like, too, to think you’re more to me than just your piloting expertise after what we’ve been through together. So, no, BB-8 didn’t have to tell me.”
> 
> Weary, Poe laughs, the bitter kind of laugh inspired by a walk up a gallows’ steps. When he speaks, he aims for jocular. He hits somewhere in the vicinity of snide instead. “Right. In that case, that’s one hell of a birthday present you got for me. Thank you, General.”

Every so often, one of the med droids’ll get it into their heads that Poe needs help. A wrist brace for that twinge from working on _Black One_ , the ache unheeded until it annoys him all the way to medical for a hot pack. Boots with better ankle support—collusion with the quartermaster at best—for reasons beyond Poe’s understanding. The last time he’d been in, L0-L4-A had suggested eye drops.

“I don’t need eye drops, Lola,” he’d said, backing toward the exit as quickly as propriety allows. “You’re clearing me, right?”

“I oughtn’t,” she’d replied, tart, the hint of artificiality only enhancing her put-upon curtness. Still, Poe knows she’s got a soft spot for him. Pretty sure anyway. Okay, maybe not. “You are showing definite signs of eye strain.”

Bowing, he’d clasped his hands in supplication. Offering himself up to the medbay gods. “Come on, Lo.”

“I hope I’m not nearby when you come back in with complaints.” But she’d made a note on a PADD. And he’d heard the pleasant chirp from it as her decision had been entered in his record. Free and clear until the next mission at least. It’d felt good at the time. Like one for the win column.

Now, he’s kinda wishing he’d taken her up on the offer. Pressure is building behind his eyes at an excrutiating rate. And the grit in them is driving him so far into distraction—

“You don’t have time for this,” he reminds himself, knuckling at them. Staring out the window at the sky, color leeching from it at a frightening pace. _And now you have plans, too_.

He lets himself smile about that at least, the one bright spot in his day. It really had been nice to see both Rey and Finn. Even in the middle of this—well, _day_ is the kindest way to phrase it. It’s been more of a…

_Your mother didn’t raise you to use that kind of language, Poe. Snap out of it._

Frowning, cheek perched on his fist, he pokes at his PADD. He notes yet another way the Resistance isn’t ready. Another hole in their defenses. Another death in their future because they don’t have the personnel, money, or resources to properly secure their own safety.

In a war of attrition, the Resistance is smoked. In another big encounter—

His comm chirps, stalling that particularly morbid line of thought. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he picks the unit up. The case creaks under his palm. “Dameron.”

“Poe,” General Organa answers, both sympathetic and stern. No, not stern. Serious. And not so much sympathetic as subdued. “How many can we take?”

Poe draws his fist up, arm tense with the need to sweep his answer to the floor. Let it shatter into pieces at his feet. It’s just a bunch of cold, impersonal numbers on there. Nothing a pilot can use to save the day, not even him. All right there on that damned PADD. “No more than a third of ‘em, General,” he says. “I’d love more than anything to whip a squadron of eager recruits into fighting shape, but we can’t feed or clothe them.”

“A third?”

“Generously,” he says, hedging—and hating himself for it. Still unwilling to not give her the opinion she’s asked for. Someone else can strike the true killing blow for the rest of the base. “That’s all over, I think. It’s worse out here. Unless you’re holding back on a dozen X-wings, I can take maybe ten as support. I have too many pilots—” And isn’t that a joke? They’re running on a bone of a skeleton crew out here. How can what little he has be considered too much? “—and enough engineers to get by. If you’ve got any particularly talented mechanics, I could probably find something for them to do. Other than that, it’s all busy work and cross-training.”

His eyes track to the people in question. The vast majority have gone in. The few who remain are all but twiddling their thumbs. What ships they have are in the best shape of their lives, serviced and serviced again. There’s just nothing to _do_.

Poe shouldn’t even have given the general that nice, round number, but he hates the idea of a bunch of people wanting to join up getting turned away. Makes him want to vomit.

“Speak freely, ma’am?” he says, almost cringing at how different he sounds to his own ears. He can’t imagine what he sounds like to anyone else. To the general in particular.

She sighs, her frustration audible even through the comm’s distortion. “I don’t generally promote people given to stupid questions, Poe. Say what you have to say.”

He blows out a breath. “We’re fu—ah.” Inhaling, he tries again. “I don’t know that we can keep going like this.” They’d dealt the First Order a setback—and that’s great, that’s more time the First Order isn’t out there terrorizing the rest of the galaxy. But they’d thrown everything they’d had at Starkiller. And nearly obliterated themselves in the process. It’s only taken this long to notice because, for a while, there _had_ been stuff to do. A lot of it.

They can’t do it again. They can’t, honestly, do anything right now.

“What would you suggest?”

_Run_. The thought comes unbidden, swift and painful and disgusting, a thought to be buried as deep as it’ll go. “Fight small and fight smart. Independent cells. Sabotage.” _Fewer flashy hero maneuvers. Real work. Messy work. Dangerous work. Mean work._ The list goes on, spooling out inside his head, growing longer and longer as he thinks about it and all the ways it could go wrong—and would—before the end. It seems impossible to conceive how badly it could go wrong, but his mind keeps cranking away at it anyway, the imaginary bodies piling up…

Stomach churning, he swallows the acid working its way up his throat.

“Poe,” she says, firm, but not unkind. “Pack it in for the evening.”

“But—” Even in low-power mode, the PADD mocks him. He adds, forlorn, “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she says, derailing him entirely. “I’ve got what I needed from you.

“And Poe? Please think about enjoying your birthday for once.”

“How did—? Did BB-8 tell you, too?”

“In addition to having access to your file and a better than average memory, I fought beside your mother on Naboo. I’d like, too, to think you’re more to me than just your piloting expertise after what we’ve been through together. So, no, BB-8 didn’t have to tell me.”

Weary, Poe laughs, the bitter kind of laugh inspired by a walk up a gallows’ steps. When he speaks, he aims for jocular. He hits somewhere in the vicinity of snide instead. “Right. In that case, that’s one hell of a birthday present you got for me. Thank you, General.”

“Would you rather I’d put this off to spare the day for you?”

“Of course not,” Poe says, his elbow slamming into the edge of the desk. The pain ripping up his arm feels dull compared to the shard of dread working through his chest. He’s dedicated. He _is_. And he’d never want her to think…

“Let them be your friends, Poe,” she says, twisting the conversation, far too kind and far too perceptive. “They just want you to be happy.”

“I’d be happier if we had a chance in hell of—it doesn’t matter. We’re gonna get this done, right? They can’t just—”

“They won’t.” He can hear the encouraging smile in her voice when she adds, wry, “Haven’t you heard? The Force is with us and I’m a hell of a lot smarter now than I ever was back then. We’ll make it.”

Poe lets himself believe because he has to. And more than that, he wants to. And even more than that, she’s right. She is scary smart and scary intuitive, the best commanding officer he’s ever served under. And for that reason alone, his mind grasps for his characteristic certainty from before. Before his mission to Jakku and before the loss of the Hosnian system. Before General Solo. Huge blows for so many different, terrible reasons, not least because Poe had never considered the possibilities.

Back then, the First Order had been an abstraction, a distant monster, frightening, yet out of reach. Even those old skirmishes now feel like happy dreams, hazy with nostalgia and righteousness.

Back then, he’d considered himself the best chance General Organa ever took.

But a loss of nerve had never been part of that bargain. And he can’t let it be now. He _won’t_. Not because a PADD says there’s no point, that it’s impossible.

“It’s harder when it’s personal,” she says, stranded with her son or her husband, he’s not sure. Maybe she’s split between the two. If any one person could find the middle way through that kind of pain and keep talking, it’s her.

“It was always personal.” He’s lost people before. Gotten into scrapes and scraps and every brand of trouble under multiple suns. He’d still given one-hundred percent of himself to the cause through all of it. He’d always thought it felt personal before anyway, but maybe she’s right. She usually is.

He can’t say it doesn’t feel different now.

“Have a good night, Poe,” is all she says in response, not quite dubious, but not quite willing to take him at his word either.

“You, too, General.” Click. A hint of static. Then silence. He pockets the comm.

Sick of these four walls, he picks up the PADD. Tosses it back onto the desktop where it lands with a satisfying thwack, sick of it, too. Outside, he keys the security measures, clumsy in the execution of each unfamiliar sequence on the console next to the door. After a long moment during which he wonders if he’d done it wrong, a thick metal sheet falls into place over the windows. The door shuts, three separate bars locking into place with distinct, ominous clunks. As far as Poe’s concerned, it can stay locked up for the rest of eternity.

He rights his uniform, refastening all the closures, tugs on the hem until it can reasonably be considered neat. Slides his fingers through his hair, rearranging it as best he can without a mirror, a comb, nor even a handful of water. Uncomfortable, he practices a smile or two, the corners of his mouth aching with the effort. It’s not supposed to be this hard.

_Too much_.

A handful of his people mill about the hangar as he passes, talking and laughing and getting only the most occasional bit of work done, the rest gone for the night. He tosses off a wave, pretending today hasn’t been the worst he’s experienced in a long time. It would be hard to miss the interest in their eyes, but he doesn’t stop to indulge them, no matter how much comfort sparing them a few minutes of his time might bring.

As he trudges toward the base, he distracts himself from thoughts of how ill-prepared they are as a group with thoughts of how ill-prepared he is as a human being. Because that’s somehow the easier thing to think about now. Getting caught off-guard about his birthday? After years of pulling missions, saving up furloughs, and finding every way to ensure absolute busyness, it’s come down to forgetfulness and a mouthy droid.

He fishes his comm from his pocket. “Beebs,” he says. “Beebs, you there?”

No answer.

Glaring, fist tight around the waste of metal and plastic, he tries again. “BB-8, I know you’re there.”

Nothing.

“Congrats, buddy, you just got yourself assigned to every boring scouting mission for the rest of your life,” he mutters. “No Corellian Slips for you. And see if I ever teach you the L’ullo Stand.”

His threats go unanswered. Not that he’d expected any different.

He tries Finn and Rey, too. Is unsurprised when he gets no response. He considers using the emergency frequency, discards the idea as childish and inappropriate.

But he’d rather not traipse through the whole damned compound on a search; he’s got things to do. So the mess it is, already full of his off-duty colleauges. He waits as three-fourths of them turn to look at him, the rest just a shade slower to notice than the majority, all a little confused. ”Yeah, yeah, sharp suit,” he says, indicating the torture chamber currently ensuring his modesty. “Haven’t had the chance to change yet. Anyone seen BB-8?”

Most shake their heads, but Rieka, older and wiser and less awed by Poe than just about anyone on the base, clears her throat. “I’d have thought they’d be with you.”

Crap. _Don’t frown._

“Gave ‘em the day off for good behavior,” he jokes, which is close enough to the truth that he doesn’t feel too bad about it. “Seems they rolled a little too far afield with their freedom.”

A few good-natured boos ring out from the back of the room—Pava and Snap from the sound of it—taking, with their outburst, a majority of the scrutiny Rieka had put him under. Waving off their playful disdain, he tells them all to shove it—nicely, of course—and to let Beebs know Poe’s looking for ‘em if anybody happens to come across the little droid.

“Finn or Rey, too,” he adds. Though Poe suspects where one went today, so went the others, and what he’s really asking for is one and the same.

Pava climbs to her feet, jaunty salute at the ready. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in the kitchens,” he says, hooking his thumb over his shoulders. And, anticipating his crew and compatriots, what he lets them think he means is ‘spread the word around.’ Ensures his wayward _friends_ will find him.

Now he just has to convince himself his birthday isn’t somehow the single most cursed day on any planet ever, that he hasn’t just put himself through the wringer over an audit of Resistance resources, and that he does actually recognize himself as Poe Dameron, best pilot in the Resistance, General Organa’s most loyal recruit. He’s not a frightened kid running into the taste of adversity for the first time.

But it sure as hell feels like it.

Walking into said kitchens, he sheds his jacket, almost ripping it in one of its hellish seams in his haste. He hangs it near the entrance, on a hook he’d put in when they’d first got here, one of a handful of rituals he completes at every new base he’s stationed on. So far no one’s complained.

“Been awhile,” Stazsa says from over near one of the seven sets of burners in the place. Only four are in use, the rest permanently idle save one on occasion, a rather eloquent illustration of Poe’s earlier realization.

“Yeah,” he admits, reminding himself that this is just one day, it’ll pass like any other. It won’t always be this bad.

Might as well find something good to grasp. And that thing, he decides, is going to be his birthday. For Finn’s sake. And Rey’s. And maybe even his own. “You guys got some room in here for a ‘charmingly dashing pilot who’d cook you all under the table if he could tear himself away from his X-wing for more than an hour at a time?’”

“That’s not what I said, Dameron,” Stazsa calls out over the chuckles and chortles and vaguely amused harrumphs of the others, “and you know it.”

He steps toward her, arms wide, a smirk easier to manage than a smile. “You say, ‘pain in the ass daredevil who wouldn’t know a mandoline from a Mandalorian cruiser,’ I say, ‘who cares about mandolines, I still make the best runyip stew in the sector and that’s the only thing that matters.’”

Stazsa, shorter than Poe by about a head and twice as fierce, points toward the far corner of the room. Poe’s corner, in its way, since that’s where Stazsa always sends him when he pops up. “Over there,” she says, “where you can’t distract the rest of us with your nonsense.”

“You wound me,” Poe says, hands clasping to his chest. “Truly.”

“Not deeply enough,” she says sotto voce.

“None of my nonsense is distracting,” he says, crooning his words, voice pleasant if a little rough. Not quite there, but almost.

Stazsa coughs to cover her disbelief, a tactic she’s used far, far too many times in the past. “We’re out of runyip.”

“I know.”

“So what are you doing?”

He pokes around in the cupboard above his station, surveying the variety of supplies, eyes snapping tiredly on each item. Biting his lip, he considers, briefly, his response. “Making up for lost time,” he says, settling, finally, on the right answer.


	3. Rey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And that’s where we’re looking for a present? For Poe? In a room full of scrap.” Finn’s scrunched up nose tells Rey at least as much about his opinion as the Force does. She can almost hear the argument he’s not making. _Poe deserves better than that. Come on, Rey_.

“Finn, it’s pointless.”

Rey isn’t given to stomping around. Not like she used to be. Not all the time. Certainly not now. She is definitely not… stomping. The thud of her boots doesn’t echo off the floor and she’s obviously not frustrated. She has no reason _to_ stomp. Nope. Not her. Jedi don’t stomp.

At least that’s what Master Luke keeps telling her. Not in so few words anyway. He’s more dignified than that. _Negativity will only affect you if you let it. Don’t let it._

Then again, General Organa _has_ corrected him a time or two on that score, her mouth quirked in a secretive, knowing smile. She’d winked once, too, as she’d scolded her brother in Rey’s sight. _What about that time you_ …?

So maybe Jedi do stomp. When the opportunity calls for it.

In which case, Rey can maybe admit that she’s stomping, the distance between one end of the base and the other disappearing beneath her feet at a too-rapid clip. And maybe she’s stomping because Pava had told them Poe’s looking for them. Now. A smirk playing around her mouth when she’d crossed paths them not twenty minutes ago.

 _Your fan club’s looking for you,_ she’d said, addressing them both. _In the kitchens. You might want to step to it. It’ll be worth it._

Finn grabs at her elbow, stuck three steps behind because, unlike her, he’s not on a tear. “It’s not,” he insists as she pulls out of reach. The air around him shifts as he lunges for her, but she anticipates that, too, and sidesteps him.

“We’ve been at this for _hours_ ,” she replies. Another one of Luke’s ‘teachings’ wafting, unbidden, through her mind. _Jedi don’t whine_. But she’s pretty sure—somewhere underneath that grizzled beard he’d insisted upon keeping—that’s a lie. She’s heard him balk a few times and talk back and mutter under his breath. She’s beginning to think some of his aphorisms are more aspirational than inspirational. “Poe’s impossible.”

“You _like_ Poe,” Finn points out, reasonable, as though she can’t sense his nervousness, too, and his disappointment. It’s not her fault she can feel it, not entirely. Ever since she’d started training, it’s gotten more prominent, her senses sharpening. She still hasn’t mastered blocking out other people’s emotions. And it’s only getting worse. It’ll keep getting worse, Luke had said, right up until the moment it gets better. Knowing puts her on edge, makes her feel that much more hemmed in, guilty. She can’t let Poe _and_ Finn down, not separately and definitely not at the same time.

“Not right now, I don’t.” Her mouth firms and her eyelashes blur her vision as she narrows her eyes. She’s driven forward with no destination in mind now, all out of ideas. Movement for the sake of it. Not very Jedi-like either. “How can anyone be this difficult?”

“Poe’s… not really difficult, Rey.” She turns to glare at Finn, who lifts his hands to ward off the brunt of her stare. “I just mean he’s not gonna care about this.”

Whirling, aware that she’s taking this too personally, that Finn’s right, she crouches in front of BB-8. She can’t see inside their head, but the way they tilt back suggests their determination, too. “Can you think of anything else? Anything at all?”

 _I don’t know. I’ve never gotten him a present before._ They roll back and forth, indecisive. _He never asks for anything._

“Come on, BB-8. You’ve known him longest.” The way she speaks, she knows, sounds covetous. Unproductively jealous. The same way Poe sometimes sounds when they’ve pulled a mission that separates him from the pair of them. Or the way Finn sometimes gets when she and Poe talk about flying…

Greedy. Like they all just wished they’d met one another sooner.

BB-8 tilts again, beeping hesitantly. _There’s a room where they keep spare parts…_

“Anything’s worth a shot,” she insists, speaking before anyone can contradict her. Jerking her head back, she adds, “Lead the way.”

“Where are we going?” Finn asks, eyes flicking between Rey and BB-8, a little suspicious.

Rubbing her hands against her thighs, she surges to her feet. “Salvage room.” She holds out her hand to Finn. “Come on.”

“Salva—what? Like a junk… room? There’s a room full of junk just… hanging out around here?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s where we’re looking for a present? For Poe? In a room full of scrap.” Finn’s scrunched up nose tells Rey at least as much about his opinion as the Force does. She can almost hear the argument he’s not making. _Poe deserves better than that. Come on, Rey._

She grins, her certainty growing, slow and steady, inside of her. Of course, _of course_ , that’s where she’d find what she’s looking for. “I’ve done some incredible things with a room full of scrap.” Not in so short a time, of course, and not without her workstation, but that hardly matter. If they find something in there, she’ll make it work. “Didn’t they use salvage in the First Order?”

“No,” Finn answers, scandalized. Which, she supposes, makes sense. She’s never seen anything to suggest they don’t have all the resources they could need and more. Pristine, organized, perfect. That’s the First Order. They’d just dump anything that couldn’t prove its use immediately.

That’s why they’re going to lose.

“Wasteful,” she sing-songs. “Unimaginative.”

Finn’s eyebrows lift and he cocks his head to the side. “Well,” he says, considering. “You’re not wrong there.”

She wiggles her fingers until Finn sees fit to take her hand, the warmth of his palm a comfort to her. “So let’s go.”

*

BB-8 stops before a nondescript door a few corridors from command, no different from any other door around the base. They chirp, pleased, bumping repeatedly into the thick metal. Rey enters her credentials into the keypad, the droid zooming ahead of them once the door opens.

As she enters, she can hear BB-8 trilling happily, zipping this way and that, their little metal body skating across the floor. She bites back a smile and surveys the room. Unending rows of metal shelves line the place, stacked high with engine parts, electronic components, droid accessories. Everything available for her perusal. Nobody squatting nearby, declaring ownership. She would have guarded this place day and night if she’d been back on Jakku. The urge to do so here, now, overwhelms her, an instinctive wave of _mine, it’s mine, I found it_ crashing through her unbidden.

 _Let it go, Rey_ , she tells herself. She points toward the far end of the room, where BB-8 is busy wheee-oing their way past the lowest shelves. “You start there.” Points, this time, in the opposite direction. “I’ll start here.”

“What am I looking for?”

Rey shrugs, biting her lip, her indecision tugging at her. “You’ll know it when you see it?”

“Yeah.” Finn plants his hands on his hips and turns once, head raised to take in as much of it has he can. “Yeah, I can see how that’s gonna work.” Despite his words, he can’t cover the softness of his tone, nor hide his respect for Rey’s need to see this through. He strides, instead, in the direction Rey suggests. Raising his voice, he says, “Poe’s gonna laugh himself sick when we tell him about this.”

“That bothers you?” she calls back, crouching in a likely spot. Shifting and pushing and picking up pieces, she searches, only half of her attention on Finn. _Perhaps Master Luke would be proud,_ she thinks. _This isn’t so different from some of the tasks he sets me._

Finn barks out a laugh. “Hell, no. Did you see his face today?”

Rey swallows, nodding, not quite able to answer with words. Yeah, she’d seen it. And she never wants to see it again.

“I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t. Assuming this all doesn’t go horribly wrong, I’m planning on embellishing just to make sure he does,” Finn continues. Then she hears a bang, the sound of metal clanging to the floor, and a particularly colorful turn of phrase. Rey reaches out with her mind to stop a piece of pipe from rolling under one of the shelves near Finn’s foot. She lets go of it as Finn picks it up. “Huh.”

His curiosity tickles at the back of her mind. “Huh?” she repeats, prompting.

“Oh, these are cute,” Finn says, answering nothing.

Rey stands. She spins, takes a couple of steps in Finn’s direction. “What’s cute?”

He pokes his head around the end of the farthest shelf. “You think he’d like some weird baby gloves?” He lifts his hand, waving a small piece of black, sheened fabric around like a flag. It catches what little light the room emits.

“Finn!” As she closes the distance between them, she sees fine, silvered filaments, suggestive of something she’s intimately familiar with. “Oh, Finn. You’re a genius.”

“What?” No, I’m not.” He whips the glove behind his back, aware he’s done something, but not quite sure what. “We’re not giving him baby gloves.”

“They aren’t baby gloves,” she insists. “Is there a helmet nearby?” She doesn’t let her hopes build too high. Without a helmet, those gloves are useless.

“A helmet? No, there’s—” She rounds the corner just as he starts scrounging around, haphazard, pulling at everything and nothing all at once. He’d never do as a scavenger. “Yeah, actually.” He straightens up and glares at her, friendly accusation in his eyes, a helmet cradled between both hands. “How’d you know?”

She breathes out, relief spilling over every inch of her. “It’s a flight sim.”

“Poe has a million flight sims,” Finn says, entirely reasonable and entirely without understanding. “Big ones.”

Technically, Finn’s not wrong. How else is Poe going to train his pilots up? But this one isn’t a full cockpit with the not-too-out-of-date sim programs loaded in and a full holographic interface. It won’t shift and tilt and spin the way Poe’s do. This one’s old and—as she grabs the helmet from Finn, she realizes—well-maintained, not a scratch anywhere along the helmet’s casing, nor a tear in the interior padding. It’s similar to the one she’d had back on Jakku, though of better provenance. “I learned how to fly on a flight sim like this one.”

Maybe Finn doesn’t understand because he’s not a pilot, but Rey knows. She _knows_ this is the right thing for Poe. Only now she has to figure out why an antique flight sim got stashed in here. Assuming the Resistance has no dire need for its parts, even as a curio, she thinks he’d like it. It’s beautiful—in a utilitarian way.

Still, something niggles at her, a small disturbance in the Force. An imprint, familiar and strange all at the same time. She flips the helmet, twisting it this way and that under the dismal lighting.

She misses it at first, the writing along the back of the neck, perfect enough to look, at first glance, like a manufacturer’s stamp.

But no manufacturer would put ‘Property of Poe Dameron’ on it. And not in so fine a script. “Oh, Finn.” She turns the helmet until the back is facing Finn, her heart in her throat. “Look.”

“Property of… why’s this here?” He looks down at BB-8, who’s gotten curious themself, rolling so close to Finn’s boot, they nearly climb his leg. “You ever see it before?”

They shake their head.

Rey snatches the helmet back and puts it on her head, unceremonious. “Gloves,” she says, opening and closing her hand. Finn, bless him, immediately gives them over. She snaps them on, the fabric stretching and molding to her hands.

Her fingers graze along the outside of the helmet until she finds the on-switch.

“It’s broken,” she says, flicking it back and forth a couple of times, testing. The visor remains dark; she hears no sound. Not even the gloves respond when she flexes her fingers.

“Maybe it’s out of power?”

“He wouldn’t put it here if that’s the only problem,” she says, certain of that much at least. This hadn’t been something he’d just get rid of. “There’s something wrong with it.” The helmet catches on her hair as she rips it off her head, the pain a minor concern as she runs her fingers over every inch of it again. The gloves get in her way, but she feels she needs to do this _now_ more than she needs to take them off.

Patience hasn’t ever been her strongest suit.

Finn steps closer, peers over her shoulder. He radiates warm comfort against her back, soothing despite the frantic thumping in her chest. “Can you fix it?”

“I can fix anything,” she says, but what she means is _I don’t know_ and _maybe_ and _there’s not enough time_. Tucking the helmet under her arm, she pulls one glove free, then the second. “Hold these,” she says, dropping them into Finn’s waiting hand before she’s even certain he’s ready to catch them.

She pries at the seam in the back of the helmet, careful to avoid scratching at the words beneath it. Wrangling with it, she grunts and clenches her jaw, bites back a curse. Her fingernails bend back awkwardly, the pain burning all the way up her fingers.

Finally, the cover pops free with a crack to expose the main computing center. With a delicate touch, she frees the piece from its hinges and hands it to Finn, who whistles as he peeks down at the exposed circuits. It’s far neater inside than she’d expected, but she still doesn’t relish pulling apart the even rows of wires to find the problem.

 _If it’s even a problem with the computer_.

Sometimes, not often, things just stop working and there’s nothing you can do about it. No amount of attention or care can bring them back. And sometimes, even less often than that, the resources just aren’t there. No amount of skill or expertise can solve that problem.

Rey’s never much liked those times.

She pushes apart a few of the wires with the tips of her fingers, blows delicately at the circuit board, wishing for a pair of pliers and her much beloved air compressor.

 _Poe would’ve looked here_ , she thinks, annoyed with herself. He’s almost— _almost, not quite_ —as good as she is with repairs. He might even be better when it comes to his own ship, but he’s no slouch when it comes to other things, either. He’s not as creative as she is at improvising. And it takes him longer to troubleshoot problems. But to assume she’d find something when he hadn’t…

 _Arrogance. Master Luke ought to set you another cycle of meditations on the nature of pride_.

“There’s got to be _something_ ,” she mutters, taking the cover back from Finn. It snaps back into place with ease. Turning the helmet over, giving it another thoroughly useless visual inspection, she huffs. Then, looking up at Finn, she glares. “If this goes wrong, don’t tell Master Luke.”

Finn’s eyes widen, bright with worry, his emotions spiking in a real and visceral way. “What are you—?”

She closes her eyes and reaches out with the Force, feeling every bit as ridiculous as she knows she should. The Force, she’s been told on numerous occasions, flows through all _living_ things. Living things. Not glorified bundles of copper and hardened plastic and silicon.

Anyway. She has to try. So long as Finn doesn’t tell anyone about the time Rey tried to use the Force to fix a flight sim and failed, she’ll be fine.

At first, she feels nothing of diagnostic use, nothing but the warm impressions of good memories. She doesn’t know if this is something she’s really feeling or if she’s imagining it, only hoping there are good memories attached—she’s never thought to ask Master Luke and doesn’t always trust the ability.

She presses the button on the side again, power surging, electricity bright and sputtering just—there. Right there. The side of the helmet. Where hands are not supposed to go.

She searches for another catch, some way to crack open the helmet without breaking the casing. “It’s a wire,” she says for Finn’s benefit. “There’s one loose, but I can’t—” The plastic fractures with a loud click. A large, curving rectangle flies off, catching Finn in the chest. “Oops. Sorry.” She looks up at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he answers, mouth slackening, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Is _it_ okay?”

“Yeah.” She nods to more thoroughly encourage the truth of her point. Maybe that piece isn’t supposed to come off, but that’s where she needs to be and she’s somewhat certain—in the case that she can’t reattach the panel without the help of some glue—that Poe won’t mind. So long as it works.

He’d probably say it just gives the thing more character.

Stepping toward the shelves, she crouches down and clears enough space on the bottom shelf to place the helmet. BB-8 rolls over, bent forward, immediately shining a light on the thing, somehow knowing what Rey needs.

“What do you think, BB-8?” she says, off-hand, knees tucking beneath her. “Can we do this?”

BB-8 beeps their encouragement.

Were she on Jakku, she’d need a soldering iron, some tape, her multimeter. Here, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, tracing mentally the energy around the helmet, like finding a bleed. So much less complicated than irons and tape and multimeters could ever be.

It shouldn’t be this easy something in the back of her mind tells her. She shouldn’t be capable of something like this. She’s done nothing to earn these abilities. But they do the work. She can’t deny that. After a minute, then two, she senses the wires bending to her will, reshaping themselves in the image she desires. The loose twists of copper morph and secure themselves into place. The whole thing, for one moment, seems to sing to her.

No. That’s not right. It doesn’t sound anything at all like any voice she’s ever heard, and as soon as she stops, so does the sound. But what she’s left with is, well, not a bad repair job so far as she can tell.

Grinning, pleased, she brushes her hands together and picks up the helmet. Rests it on her head. Doesn’t bother to ask for the gloves before flipping it on.

At first she sees blurred color, light coalescing with a shimmering slowness, bright as a sun. It resolves into a menu of options in a language she can’t read. Unlike the inscription on the back, this isn’t in Basic.

The dull hum of an engine, soothing and low, vibrates against her ears, more than the helmet’s speakers should suggest, but still less than the reality provides.

“Gloves,” she says, holding her hands out. They immediately drop into her palms and she slips them on, tapping the space in front of her to make a selection. The scene dissolves, immediately replaced by a cockpit—an A-wing cockpit, in point of fact. Rey’s hands tighten into fists. The silver filaments in the gloves replicate the pressure of the flight controls. For being such an old piece of technology, it’s remarkably resilient and responsive.

No wonder Poe’d taken such good care of it.

With a wave of her hand, she ends the simulation, the visor going dark, the noise draining away.

“Time to go,” she says, climbing to her feet, dragging the thing from her head. “Let’s hope we didn’t just make a big mistake, yeah?”

*

Standing outside the kitchens, Finn radiates nervousness, smothering Rey with an almost discomfiting heat. All while her own worries tug at the back of her mind. What if Finn’s wrong? What if Poe doesn’t like it? What if he’d gotten rid of it for a reason? What if she’d only succeeded in delaying the sim’s death for a short time and he ends up disappointed by it a second time?

Equipment clatters inside the room on the other side of the doors. Poe. Cooking. For them. Even though he’s expecting them, she can’t take those few, final steps.

“It’s just a door,” she says, more for her own benefit than anyone else’s.

BB-8 sighs and rolls forward, knocking themself against the shut door. The thud is loud enough to make Poe quit moving, all sound from behind the door ceasing.

Rey stuffs the gloves and loose panel into her belt and hands the helmet off to Finn. He slides behind Rey to better hide it. She steps forward, tugs on her vest, the gray fabric rough under her fingers, and pushes the door open. Chin up, she avoids glaring down at BB-8 as they whirling their way into the room.

“Poe?” she asks, peering in before giving Finn a wave. All clear.

“Yeah, I was wondering when you guys were going to show up,” he replies, loud, turning and lowering his voice only at the very last second. He smiles, a little abashed. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Finn says, hands folded behind his back, fingers tapping out a frenetic rhythm against the plastic.

“Hi,” Rey adds after a delay. She searches Poe’s face for signs of his earlier turmoil, but he looks fine. Looks being the operative word. His hands drift down his sides to smooth his shirt, different from the one he’d worn earlier. This one doesn’t seem to be strangling him at least. And it’s also unbelievably pristine, but appears soft to the touch, clinging to his torso.

She doesn’t think she’s seen it before.

He runs his fingers through his hair and gestures at another door. “You guys maybe wanna…?” He clears his throat. “It’s all ready and—”

Rey nudges Finn, who skirts around the perimeter of the room, not suspicious at all. Except for how he’s completely and utterly suspicious. “How was the rest of your day?” she asks, smiling gamely, pulling as much of Poe’s attention from Finn as she can, certain it’s not working as well as she’d like it to.

He frowns as a sharp jag of fear-worry-guilt hits her, confused and debilitating. He recovers before she can fully parse it, opening his arms wide and clapping them at his side. “Made it through,” he says, only sounding half as wrong as he had earlier today. His eyes flick in the direction Finn had disappeared. “He okay?”

“Sure,” she answers. “Yeah.”

“Oh, wow,” she hears from the other room, Finn’s voice carrying—muffled by distance.

That earns the barest sketch of a smile from Poe. “Go on ahead,” he says.

As soon as she steps into the room, she realizes why Finn had been so impressed. The room is nice enough, somehow roomy and small at the same time, the only pieces of furniture a table and the benches on either side of it. In the center of the table, a plain, white platter sits, piled high with a riot of chopped vegetables. They rest on a steaming bed of fluffy _parzak_ , the whole dish slathered in a glossy, translucent sauce.

For how pretty it looks, it smells even better, savory and a little spicy, the aroma nothing like the usual fare put out in the mess. Too complex, each scent is hard to pinpoint.

Poe steps up behind her, nudging her in the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to just stand there,” he says, leaning toward her, his breath ghosting across her cheek. After a moment of indecision, she takes a seat on the bench Finn has chosen, sliding in next to him, their arms and thighs brushing.

When his knee starts jiggling, she places her hand over it, squeezing lightly.

Poe drops a plate in front of Finn, then her, then one on the other side of the table for himself. Repeats this act with the napkins. He sits then, and stares at them, mouth pinching in thought. “So how do you want to do this?” he asks, casually upsetting the careful pile of vegetables by stabbing a spoon into them.

Rey takes the lead, grabbing the spoon and reaching for Poe’s plate. “This was your idea,” she says. “What would you like to do?”

He huffs a laugh. “We can pretend it’s _not_ my birthday.”

Her eyes lift to his as she dishes a spoonful of the concoction—she’ll have to ask him later what it’s called—onto his plate. “Why?”

“I prefer attention for the things I’ve accomplished, not…” He winces, chagrined. “Not the things my parents accomplished.” He coughs and looks skyward. “As it were.”

“Is that the only reason?” she asks, charmed despite herself at this little display of awkardness.

He tilts his head. “I don’t know if you know this about pilots, but we’re a superstitious bunch.”

Finn shifts beside her, his elbows rising to meet the table as he rests his head on his hands. ”I can’t imagine Poe Dameron and bad luck would meet up that often.”

“You’d be surprised.” He pauses, pinching his lower lip between his fingers. ”It’s like this: when I turned five, I tripped coming into the house and broke my arm,” he says, simple, the memory long drained of potency. “The other kids had all just gotten there and my dad had called me inside. They all got to watch me cry as my mom carried me to the ‘speeder. I couldn’t even open the presents when we got back from the hospital.

“Couple of years later, my best friend, Keesa, moved away. That one sucked.”

“On your birthday?” Finn asks.

Poe scrunches up his nose. “Yeah. She was nice, too. Always wanted me to drive this little hovercraft her parents got her. Said it was more fun to pretend she had a pilot than it was to be the pilot.” His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. “Still don’t get that, but it worked for us. We had a lot of fun together.

“When I was sixteen, I bought an R-672 Lacer swoop bike. That was a beautiful rig. Saved up for a year to get it…” His eyes get a faraway look in them and he very carefully picks up his fork, tapping it against the side of his plate.

“You owned a _swoop bike_ ,” Rey asks. There’d been a swoop bike in her own flight sim, but she’d never quite got the hang of it. Too finicky. Far too responsive. She can’t quite keep the excitement out of her voice when she asks, “What was it like?”

Poe sighs. “Couldn’t tell you. You can’t take the licensing test until you’re seventeen. Which I did.” He sketches the vague shape of a helmet around his head. “Spent probably a hundred hours practicing just to qualify. Put the bike in my dad’s anti-grav trailer to take to the track right after. Some—” Anger flashes in his eyes, such a brief flare that Rey almost misses it. The sorrow that replaces it isn’t so easy to miss. “—guy drove his speeder right into the side of the trailer. Wrecked the whole thing. The guy was fine, thankfully. But.” He dips the fork into the _parzak_ and lifts it to his mouth, taking a moment to savor the taste. After swallowing, he adds, “Happy birthday to me.

“The last time I tried to celebrate my birthday, I got arrested. So, yeah. Never quite got the handle of birthdays, I guess,” he says, glossing over _that_ story like it’s nothing.

“Arrested?” Finn asks, incredulous. “You?”

“Mmm.” He points at both of them with the fork. “Are you guys going to eat or what?”

Finn looks down like he’s only just remembering they’re supposed to be having dinner. Rey, Rey is far more fascinated by what’s going on across the table to notice the food. “What were you arrested for?”

“Putting a stop to a bar brawl,” he replies, wry, stabbing at his plate with the fork in illustration. “Wasn’t that interesting actually.”

Rey grips the edge of the table, leaning forward, finding his dismissal beyond frustrating. _Wasn’t that interesting?_ “Did they press charges?” She doesn’t even know who _they_ might be. Doesn’t care. It’s hard enough imagining Poe sitting in a jail cell.

“No. Got let out after a couple of hours. As far as such things go, it was pretty boring.” He shrugs. “The bench was kind of uncomfortable, I guess.”

“How old were you?”

He scratches at the back of his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “Twenty-three? Yeah, I think that’s right. Gave up on birthays after that.” He flashes a smile. “Haven’t crashed or gotten arrested or lost a best friend since though, so I must be doing something right. Mostly.” He looks down then and bites his lip as though to stop himself from speaking any further.

From the day he’s seemed to have had, Rey thinks he may consider his streak of good luck ended. Perhaps she and Finn can change that. She leans against Finn as she reaches into her pocket for the gloves. Exchanging a look with him, she gathers what courage she can. It shouldn’t be this hard to give someone a gift, but try telling that to her stomach—or her heart.

“There’s something Finn and I would like to give you,” she says, almost failing to keep the evenness from her voice. “We didn’t have time to, well—” She thinks about some of the elaborately wrapped gifts she’s seen exchanged. She’s still not sure where anybody around here finds boxes or ribbons or the little bobbles that project holographic sparkles or little flags that say happy birthday for their presents. She hopes she hasn’t misunderstood the ritual. So far as she knows, it’s not the packaging that matters.

She glances at Finn again. “Finn found it—”

“Oh, no. Rey _fixed_ it—”

“It still needs a little work…”

Poe waits with far too much patience, subdued as he listens to the pair of them bicker. Fed up with herself, Rey bends, reaching for the helmet where Finn’s stuffed it under the bench, and blurts out her explanation as she sets it on the table. “BB-8 brought us to the salvage room.”

At that, BB-8 rolls forward, bleeping cheerily, the only one who sounds pleased about their involvement in this.

Poe doesn’t reach out for it, doesn’t move, doesn’t even speak for a long moment, staring at the thing like he’s seeing a ghost. His breath rattles a little as he sighs and scrubs his hand over his face.

“I don’t think they knew it was there,” she adds, uncertain.

“No, Beebs wouldn’t have,” Poe says. He clears his throat. Voice thin, he asks, “You got it working again?”

She turns the helmet, edges scraping against the table to show him the open panel. “Loose wire. I never would’ve found it if I hadn’t been training.” No need to explain what sort of training she means.

“Shit, you guys,” he says, wiping his hand on the napkin beside his plate. He reaches for it, his hand shaking as it catches on the visor and lifts it. “I mean, this is… you didn’t have to do this.” A refrain from earlier, true, but somehow even more heartfelt now.

“It was no trouble,” Rey insists. The Force doesn’t tell her whether she should be happy about or embarrassed for their presumptions and she really hates that. _That_ would be a productive use for her abilities.

“It was _a lot_ of trouble,” Poe answers. “Thank you. I can’t believe—I’d thought I was okay letting it go to scrap after it quit working and I couldn’t fix it. It didn’t feel right to keep hanging onto it knowing it might still be useful.”

He turns his head to the side, coughing. Steadier, he says, “It was my mom’s. She gave it to me when she decided she was gonna start teaching me how to fly ships. It’s still the best present I ever got. Twice over now.” He runs his palm over the smooth plastic, a vague smile finally fixing on his face.

She feels so much of what he doesn’t say. The twitch of distraught relief. The fragile joy cracking through a thin veneer of hopelessness. The resolve to not feel any of it anymore.

It would choke Rey if she let it, that much emotion, but then it slips and realigns. Poe, suddenly, is more Poe than he’s been all day.

And that’s a wholly different sort of relief, not distraught at all. She hands over the gloves and smiles back at him. They sit in his hand and Rey wonders how old he’d been when he’d first gotten it, if the gloves had even fit him.

“Thank you both,” he says, bringing his head forward, tilting it in ironic acknowledgment. _I know I’ve been off today,_ it says. _It’ll pass_. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Rey answers, finally lifting her own fork to her mouth, relieved. _Maybe Poe’s birthday isn’t going to be a problem from here on out_. It won’t if she has anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it all the way through this super self-indulgent thing I’ve written.
> 
> Just wanted to give credit where credit is due: all the really cool bits are lifted from Greg Rucka. _Shattered Empire_ and _Before the Awakening_ are the best and everyone who hasn’t checked them out yet really ought to. They’re glorious even though I’ve taken some liberties.


End file.
